


horses and hierarchies

by affability



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/M, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affability/pseuds/affability
Summary: Engulf yourself in gold and adjust your tiara; welcome to the monarchy. Maya/Lucas, among others.





	horses and hierarchies

. . .

It's your first day as a high school freshman and Lucas Friar hugs you when he sees you.

You didn't expect to see him so soon, especially since it's just been a few minutes into finding your locker and tackling combination code. You only see him when you notice the figure standing next to you, keying in the locker combination while simultaneously attempting to balance the heavy textbooks on the other arm. It shocks you (defers you, even, as you stand frozen in the hallway) when you identify the person as Lucas, but even more so when his first reaction after he sees you is to slam his locker shut and grab you readily by the shoulders, hugging you firmly (and it's similar to the way Riley hugs you).

"Maya," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice.

You shift a little uncomfortably simply because, well, you're not generally a touchy-feely person. You're Maya Hart—you rarely display affection to anyone other than Riley Matthews, the being in which sunshine has chosen to personify itself in the form of brown hair and almond eyes, and on occasion, you're known to not showcase affection at all. But the Texan boy is unrelenting as he embraces you warmly, his hand firmly on the small of your back, his voice cackling ever so slightly when he pulls apart to greet you. And your heart stops, just for a second, when you catch a glimpse of the messy blonde hair and the bright-eyed grin that you know all too well.

"I missed you," he says. You manage a half-smirk.

"Thanks, Sundance," you reply. You hate the way your voice breaks, but he grins at the mention of the old nickname and your smirk curves into a smile. He still looks the same, more or less, perhaps a little tanner (courtesy of the Texan sun), and his voice is a little deeper. But he's still the same Lucas Friar—all coy grins and arched eyebrows when you make a snarky remark; he still smells of cinnamon and looks at you like you're worth something.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, a little teasingly. You raise an eyebrow.

"What do you think?"

There's an edge to your tone, a dash of spunk, and you feel your insides flutter as you bask in the sweet familiarity in the nature of your conversation.

. . .

"Maya!"

You crack a half-smile when the brown-haired boy greets you cheerily as you take a seat on the table.

"Farkle," you respond, however, your enthusiasm fails to match that of the Minkus boy.

You notice that he hasn't changed much either—his face still lights up fervently when he sees you, his mousy brown hair is a little shorter (seasonal haircut, you silently thank Mrs. Minkus as you watch how the haircut showcases how puberty did the boy well), but his blue academic decathlon ribbon still hangs proudly on the top of his school bag and his oceanic eyes still twinkle when he says your name, so you figure that not much has changed. You watch as he steadies himself carefully as your brunette best friend promptly skips her way throughout the cafeteria and takes a seat beside you. You notice that Farkle is oddly silent, but his silence is diminished once Lucas takes his seat. It doesn't take you long to realize that the table you have chosen will be the one you'll sit on for the rest of the year.

"Guys," says Farkle, his voice in a hushed whisper. "We are  _freshmen_. We have embarked on a new journey—one that will be etched in our warm hearts for the rest of our little lives."

Instantaneously, his words strike a chord that spurs disinterest and you shift your attention to the right end of the table. Curving your mouth, you eye the plate of mashed potatoes that rest comfortably in front of Riley, before the brunette shifts her plate towards you and allows you to scoop freely. You grin while she leans over and grabs your red apple (which is fine, because you've always preferred the green ones). He fumbles through the contents of his schoolbag until he whips out a large notebook. He looks up and catches the way your eyebrows raise (you're unsure whether or not you are amused or perplexed at his intensity) and hastily flips through the pages, past outlines of intricate plans and schemes to ensure that their high school experience would be interesting. He rips out a loose-leaf sheet from his notebook and waves it triumphantly in the air. "You see this?"

"It's fairly visible," Riley states blankly. "So yeah; I see it."

Farkle narrows his eyes into slits, clearly discontented with the pervasive lack of enthusiasm at the table. "It's not the paper in itself that counts— _it's_   _what's on the paper_. It shall expose us to the monstrosity our protective oyster of a middle school shielded us from all these years."

On a regular day, you'd dismiss the woes of the Minkus child, since he's known to be the dramatic kind. However, today you choose to meet his blue-eyed gaze and see that he's bent on proving his point. And so, the three of you presumably have no choice but to lean over and read the scribbled sentences and words that are splattered throughout the loose-leaf paper. You squint your eyes, looking at the words that initially seem to be without correlation ( _aristocrat, performer, athlete, scholar, writer, journalist_ ) before turning to your friends. Farkle is unperturbed, patiently awaiting a response, and you notice Riley and Lucas have similar expressions—she is furrowing her neat eyebrows in worry, whilst he slowly begins clenching his water bottle in his hand (and that's never a good sign). But you're still unsure, so you look at the paper again.

"Labels," clarifies Farkle. "Prepare to be labeled."

"Farkle, this is crazy," states Riley, putting down her tube and huffing. He raises an eyebrow.

"Is it?"

"No, he's right," intervenes Lucas. "It's true. Come on guys, this is high school. The sooner we acknowledge it, the better."

"Exactly," Farkle states, gesticulating wildly, "And we need to find a solution— _pronto_."

"So, what do you suggest?" you say, twirling your locks.

"First rule: state the extracurricular activity you wish to be a part of," he replies, "And the rest of us will set boundaries. We all know your label is inevitably linked to your extracurricular activity." He clears his throat. "I, for one, am joining the Mathletes."

" _The Mathletes_?"

"The second rule," he intervenes, staring sharply at you. "No judging of chosen cliques is allowed."

But you keep your head up—still smiling tauntingly, the spiteful words threatening to escape your mouth as you glance over the intricate designs on the colorful papers. You silently grin as he meets your gaze before picking up a burrito and ending it then and there.

"Well, I want to join the cheerleading team," says Riley. "I think I have a shot this year." You roll your eyes with an all-knowing smile.

"No surprise there."

"Baseball," states Lucas. "I'll try out as soon as I can."

"So," states Farkle. "We have— _the princess_ ," he points to Riley, " _the jock_ ," to Lucas, " _the brainiac_ ," to himself. "And Maya?"

You freeze.

"I don't know."

A silence ensues.

"You have to pick something," Farkle presses on, eyebrows furrowed together. "Everyone else will."

"I don't need a label," you respond coolly, grabbing another spoonful of your meal.

"Everyone needs a label. Labels define you in high school."

"I don't need to be defined," you retort. And with that, you take the final bite of your burrito, shifting in the edge of your jeans and pulling your messy blonde hair into a ponytail.

"What about extracurricular activities?" he questions, frantic. "They look good on college applications!"

"I don't care."

"Well – I already know your label," he states, flat out. "Labelist."

You wordlessly walk away.

. . .

So that's how you end up ten minutes early to class.

You surprise your teacher (and even yourself) when you do so because this is  _you_. Your teacher is Mr. Matthews, and you've never been early a day in your life (much less early to his class). You suppose that's what compelled him to grab a chair and sit diagonally across you. His fingers are intertwined in typical teacher fashion as he decides to ask you how your first day is going. You nod absentmindedly here and there, stopping ever so often to glance at the glassy windowsill and look out into the rainy morning as he begins a long-winded speech on the importance of  _time management_  and  _extensive concentration_  and  _motivation_. You blow out a breath.

"This is high school now," adds Mr. Matthews, his speech teetering Oscar-worthy as he continues. " _I believe in you_."

You nod and make a mental note to be  _especially_  late to his class to avoid any impending lectures that include words like  _hodgepodge_  and  _staid_. Still, the all-too-familiar words of encouragement tug your heartstrings ever so subtly because it's been a while since you've heard them from an adult. Thankfully, your evenly sleep-deprived classmates stream in before you can begin to become sappy; their long-winded eye-bags and the messy hairdos already tell you that they did not have sleep last night, thus leading to an insanely quiet class of strangers. You watch as Lucas walks into the classroom; a conglomeration of furrowed eyebrows soaked combats boots and pursed lips. Then he notices you staring and stops to reciprocate with a half-grin. Every inch of his dark hair is drenched; even his white dress shirt and jeans; but his schoolbag is dry. You watch as he fruitlessly attempts to dry his notebook with his towel, unintentionally smudging the ink-splattered words together until they become unintelligible. You quirk your eyebrow and he sighs heavily.

"Lucas," whispers Missy Bradford, leaning over with a radiant smile. "If you need a notebook, you could just use my spare one. It's pretty old anyway, so I have a use for it now."

"Thanks," he responds politely, grinning.

You don't like it, but you see the effect Lucas has on her; you see how the rose tint in her cheeks intensifies with every shy grin, the way she timorously runs her pink tongue across her lower lip before proceeding to bite it whenever she gives him a jovial response, the way she tucks her hair behind her left ear, the way she lifts up her leg and places it against the wall with every word. You want to wait until she finds herself with no more words to say until she lets her insecurity get the better of her and turns away, but when you realize that it isn't going to happen anytime soon, you decide to direct your attention to something else.

You see the notebook, bright and pristine, and you know that Missy had probably bought it earlier today. You disregard it, turning to the first page, and letting your mind waver. You begin to draw anything that comes to your mind – mixing different ballpoint pen colors into one singular sketch, drawing cowboy hats and farms and horses, strong and tall and majestic. You draw as the endless chatter of imprisoned students lulls you, as you hear a polite laugh from the Texan boy beside you, as you feel your first day of school drawing to an anticlimactic close. You draw the day away, sketching spilled coffee cups, flowers and leaves and anything under the sun until the bell rings and you've regained your freedom.

. . .

A week later, Farkle's prediction proves to be true.

You drag your feet to school because the thrill of uncharted territory has worn down and you begin to see the labels falling into place. You see it when Riley dons her wine-colored cheerleading costume and when she slowly, but definitely surely, learns how to sashay down the hallways with her other glittery pompom-waving friends (just like the way they do in those bland teen movies; however your best friend does this with class and you feel your heart swell up in pride as she does so). You see it when Farkle begins lingering around the AP Calculus classes in awe with his Mathlete companions, huddling his new hoodie. You even see it when Lucas starts bringing his baseball gloves to school and how he begins turning the heads of an abundance of teenage girls (cheerleaders, dancers, exchange students—almost all of them).

But you don't say anything—you keep silent at lunch when Riley and Farkle ditch your weekly dessert dates for cheerleading practice and Math tournaments respectively. So, you, rather disconsolately, walk down to the bakery with Lucas. It's fairly uneventful, until evening strikes and you're on your way down the streetlamp-illuminated pathway with the brunet boy. He watches you carefully before he chooses to speak.

"What happened to you?" he questions. You shrug.

"I dunno. Everything just feels weird – with the labels and all. I mean, with Farkle and his Math, and Riley and her cheerleading, and you on your baseball and fan-girls—"

"Excuse me?"

"Missy Bradford is a prime example. She likes you, for your information." You turn to him. He wears the same perplexed look he did in the seventh grade—all furrowed eyebrows of indignation and silent headshakes and you chuckle dryly.

"She doesn't," he insists blindly. "She's just friendly."

"You don't know the effect you have on people, Cowboy," you muse, shaking your head. "You're missing out on a great opportunity here, though – she could do wonders for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Head cheerleader in middle school; most likely to be the future head cheerleader in high school. You'll make captain of the baseball team in no time. Together you're like Gabriella and Troy—singing amidst school games and hallways whilst surrounded by an army of musically-endorsed admirers. I'm calling it."

"Au contraire, mon cherie."

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a half-smirk; you forgot about the little things he does to showcase his intelligence. You stuff your hands in your pocket. "Can it, Frenchie."

"I'm joining the French Honor Society," he tells you, with a grin. "In addition to the baseball team." You blink owlishly.

"Good on you," you respond, not quite knowing what to say next.

He grins casually – his mouth curves into a radiant smile that lights up his face in the descending darkness of the night. You're not entirely sure why; but, for as long as you can remember, he's always been this way. "I'm joining something I  _like_ , Maya," he states. "And so should you. Do something that will make you happy for the next four years."

A silence ensues. "What if I don't know what to join?"

"We'll find out."

"How?"

He tugs on the sleeves of your hoodie as the both of you lie restlessly against the park bench. "Have you ever heard of  _Twenty Questions_?"

You watch as the shade of blue blurs into deeper and deeper shades of black on the horizon before you blow out a long breath and subconsciously lean against his shoulder. "Let's do it."

"First fear?"

"Ballerinas," you manage, taking a sip of your vitamin water. You see his mouth curve into an amused chuckle and you point a threatening finger.

"Current fear?"

"Still ballerinas."

"What was your first concert?"

" _Demo_  – eighth grade with Josh."

You pretend you don't catch the quizzical eyebrow raise you receive from him.

"What do you do on Saturday mornings?"

"Well," you murmur sleepily, yawning. "I usually sleep till noon and watch cartoons."

"Favorite instrument?"

"The guitar," you respond. This is an easy one – you play the guitar your grandmother owned when she was your age whenever you get the chance, in the privacy of your bedroom. However, perhaps playing isn't an appropriate word for what you do. In reality, you randomly stick your capo wherever it feels right and pluck the strings until you find a tune that sounds rather melodious and begin filling in lyrics on the spot while dancing around the house in a mismatched pair of socks. You have a knack for spontaneity, so it really shouldn't surprise anyone that this is a nightly routine. Still, you don't tell him  _that_. Instead, you watch the surprise glance that catches the glow in his otherwise tired face when you answer.

"It's my favorite instrument too," he responds.

"I do suppose every cowboy has a sad, sad song."

He grins lopsidedly. "You know you just made a reference to  _Poison_ , right?"

You give him a half-smirk, a little knowingly, and watch how he admires the luminance of the round moon for the next minute or so.

"You're a good artist, you know," he pauses. "Like – really, really good. Your technique is  _incredible_ —the way you link everything together is really interesting."

You raise your eyebrows, a little shocked, unsure of what to say because you're not used to accepting compliments. So, instead, you hold out your fist, the corner of your mouth curving, and he collides his fist with yours. It's an oddly intimate gesture, and it speaks volumes.

"I think that's enough questions, for now," he states. You nod silently, feeling your head throbbing as the night stretches. "Anyway – I think right now, you would prefer silence as we find our way back home."

"I would. Maybe I could join the Mime Club?"

"Do we have one?"

"We  _should_."

He nods, giving you another quirky grin, before holding his hand out for a taxi and opening the door for you. You fall asleep on his shoulder on the way back home.

. . .

The next day, after school, he takes you to a supposedly empty homeroom and you find yourself surrounded by people like you.

You see people who arch their eyebrow as they run their paintbrushes effortlessly across blank canvasses, people who frame photos of artists they aspire to be like within rooms and throw paint-filled balloons at walls when they've had enough to deal with on their plate. You find a room in the school where the walls are filled with tasteful graffiti, of people who laugh too loud and sing too much when they're running through the chaos of art. You find a place where people fly, not through the usage of feather-like wings but through planting their iridescent castles on high school ground. You freeze in your tracks as you feast your eyes on the glitter-infested room because this is all allowed and  _encouraged_  by the members of your school faculty.

You initially question your luck, as the brochure for this very group that was meeting on this very day mysteriously ended up jammed in your locker right after lunch period. Your friends would merely state that it was fate knocking on your door, and you'd probably agree, (really, though, you're certain that it was the work of a particular blonde-haired boy). Still, you decide that you don't mind when you walk towards the sculpture of the Eiffel Tower, and you cannot help but gape at the complex detail it displays.

You feel a tap on your shoulder, dragging you out of your inner thoughts, and you flinch as you turn around. You're met with a pair of warm green eyes when you meet the beret-wearing stranger's gaze—she's excited, joyful, as she searches your own marine lenses.

"Hello," the raven-haired girl greets, all bright-eyed and buoyant. "Welcome to the Art Society."

She might as well have said  _welcome home_.

. . .

 

" _Artist_ ," you decreed, a little hesitantly, as you make your way to your lunch table. You interrupt Farkle and Riley's lengthy historical dispute and Lucas looks at you in a moment of sheer gratitude (because he, evidently, is always the middleman in such cases).

"Sorry?" questions Farkle. You grin, a little nervously.

"That's my label."

"I thought you didn't believe in them," asks Riley, sinking her teeth in your red apple. You press your lips together.

"I don't really like what they represent," you state truthfully. "But I figure, if I'm going to be put into a category, I should at least be labeled for who I actually am."

You wonder if you've made the right decision until you see Lucas and meet his gaze—you see him looking at you with a smile that's almost as bright as the sunbeams that shine through the windowpane behind him. Still, you run a hand through your blonde locks and turn to meet the gaze of your other friends.

" _Artist_ ," ponders Farkle, whipping out his pencil to record this pivotal moment in their high school history. You nod, feeling your veins fire up because it's beginning to feel right. "Yeah," you say. "I like it."

"I like it too," she tells you, allowing a small smile to curve her mouth. "It suits you."

"It sure does," states Lucas.

And this time, when you smile, it's genuine.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is reposted from my ff.net account (of the same name) and i was originally going to make it a chapter fic, then gmw got cancelled and, despite all the campaigning we did, never got picked up by another network so it ended up being a standalone fic. but, let me know if you're interested to see where this story goes, just in case i decide to continue it one day. thanks for reading!


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